The Divide

by Robert Charles Wilson

  Roch stood in front of her, close enough for her to smell his breath.

  He said, “You don’t trust me.”

  She said, “That’s not true!”

  He slapped her. It was a hard, stinging, open-handed slap; it rocked her head to the right. Roch was strong … he still worked out in the gym twice a week. Amelie knew this, because he had borrowed money from her to keep his membership current.

  “You don’t trust me,” he said, “and you’re lying to me. What kind of thing is that to do? Christ, I’m your brother! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

  He expected an answer. Amelie was rigid, frightened. “Sure it means something to me.”

  “Liar,” Roch said sadly.

  “No, I mean it! I mean—Jesus Christ, Roch!”

  He grabbed her wrists; his grip was powerful. “You were running away.”

  Amelie could not hold his gaze. She looked at the lake, instead, grey under grey clouds.

  “Running away from home,” Roch elaborated. “Look at me, goddammit!”

  He took her jaw in his right hand and forced her to face him. His hand traveled up along her cheek in a gesture that was almost a caress; then he took a handful of her hair and twisted it. Amelie said, “Ow!” and began to cry.

  “You were going somewhere,” he said.

  “I was moving out,” she said. “All right? I’m sick of that place!”

  “You didn’t tell me,” Roch said patiently. “You could have told me.”

  “I thought you’d get mad!”

  He seemed puzzled. “Why? Why would I get mad? I mean, maybe you’re right. We need a bigger place. Hey, I’m reasonable.” His grip tightened on her hair. “But that’s not all of it—right?”

  “Shit,” Amelie said.

  “Don’t use bad language,” Roch said. “It makes you sound cheap.” He was thinking; his face was contorted with the effort of it. “You wanted to get rid of me. That’s it, isn’t it? Or else—it’s that guy you shacked up with, right? He’s back—right?”

  Amelie hated it when Roch talked about Benjamin. Dirty, dangerous words. “Shut up,” she said.

  He slapped her again. This time, with his left hand firmly tangled in her hair, it was worse.

  “Don’t talk to me like that,” he said.

  She moaned.

  “He’s back—right?”

  After a long pause, Amelie nodded.

  “You were going to stay with him.”

  Pause, nod again. Snow was falling gently now. She felt the flakes against her burning cheek.

  “Well, you can go,” Roch said. Amelie looked up. Roch smiled. “You can go if you want to. Sure! Go with him! I’m on your side! All I want—I just want you to prove you trust me. I just want you to tell me where I can find you.”

  “No,” Amelie said instantly.

  “No? You won’t tell me?”

  “I—I don’t know, Roch, we haven’t—”

  But she did know. Susan had given her the address of the house; Amelie had written it down and hidden it in her purse. Roch understood this, of course. He always knew when she was lying.

  This time, though, he didn’t slap her. This time he jerked his knee up into her belly and at the same time released her hair, put his hand in a frightening grip around her face and pushed. Amelie fell to the ground, doubled over and gasping for breath. The pain was enormous.

  Roch said, in a tone of weary patience, “All you have to do is tell me.”

  Amelie blinked. She felt like throwing up. She rose to her knees, and then—past Roch, a great distance back the way they’d come along the shore road—she saw a flicker of light. It was a reflection from a car window, and the car was rolling along in slow motion, and it was grey—a grey Honda.

  It was Susan, Amelie realized, who must have followed them from the rooming house.

  She looked up at Roch, trying hard to disguise her emotion.

  He took her hair and dragged her up. Amelie grabbed a double handful of cold, gritty beach sand … and then she was on her feet.

  She had seen this in movies. You took a handful of dirt—

  Roch frowned. “What now?” Reading her face.

  Amelie brought both hands up and thrust them forward, spraying the beach sand into Roch’s eyes.

  “What the fuck—!” he screamed.

  Amelie ducked past his groping hands toward the Honda. She saw Susan accelerate suddenly down the gritty tarmac. Hurry, Susan!

  But the sand-in-the-eyes thing was not as paralyzing as it looked on TV. Roch turned and scrambled after her. She could hear the thump of his big feet against the beach. The sandy beach slowed her down; it was like running in a dream … but maybe it would slow Roch down, too. Amelie saw the Honda speeding toward her as Susan realized what had happened. Amelie drew in great ragged gasps of frigid air.

  The Honda veered away from the road and ran a few yards along the verge. It wavered, and Amelie saw Susan groping across the passenger seat to unlock the far door. The door swung open as the Honda curved back to the road. Amelie focused all her attention on that door. It was her only way out of here. Because Roch was mad enough now that he might kill her … maybe not on purpose; but he was strong; she was not.

  He was right behind her now. She could hear his angry breathing. She didn’t look back, because surely that would be the end; because he might be right there with his arms outstretched; she might freeze in her tracks, seeing him. She watched the Honda roll forward in lazy dream-time and thought, Here I am, okay, right here, Susan!

  Then she felt a tug as Roch closed his hand on her jacket. She pulled away, but only briefly. She stumbled, and Roch tackled her—a football tackle; she went down winded and breathless.

  When she opened her eyes he was kneeling over her. But the look on his face was not triumphant; it was queerly mechanical, a vacant gaze that was focused on her only approximately. But his fist was raised and it was obvious what he meant to do. Amelie tried to squirm away but his other hand was clamped in a fierce grip around her neck.

  Amelie twisted her head to one side in time to see the front tires of the Honda spitting sand as the car braked beside her. Susan! Amelie thought. But it wasn’t Susan who saved her, really; it was the passenger-side door, which flew open as the Honda stopped and caught Roch across the head and shoulders. Roch slumped forward and his weight was immense, but the grip around her neck had loosened and Amelie slid out from under the limp bulk of her brother.

  Susan pulled her inside the car. Amelie slammed the door and hammered down the lock. Susan stepped down on the accelerator. The little car revved against the sand for a long, heartstopping moment; then the rear wheels seemed to bite down and the Honda shot forward. The car missed a leafless maple by inches … Amelie cringed … then they were back on solid tarmac and rocketing down the lakeshore road.

  Amelie knelt on the vinyl carseat and peered through the rear window. She saw Roch stand up. He shook himself—she thought of a wet dog shaking itself dry—then stumbled toward his van.

  “He’s coming after us,” she said.

  Susan said, “Relax,” though she was breathing hard. The Honda turned left and roared through the industrial wasteland. Amelie watched vigilantly but saw no sign of Roch. Then they were into traffic and there was no chance of him following; Amelie sighed and slumped down in the seat.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “It’s okay,” Susan said.

  * * *

  Amelie stared vacantly through the window. The snow was falling harder now. The afternoon was turning dark.

  “Are you all right?” Susan asked.

  Amelie touched the sore part of her cheek. It would swell and bruise; it would look shitty. She was bruised down around her belly, too. But it was nothing terrible. She told Susan so.

  “Nice guy,” Susan commented.

  Amelie shrugged.

  “I guess he wanted to know where you were going?”

  “Yes,” Amelie said.

 
“Did you tell him?”

  “No.”

  “That’s why he hit you.”

  Amelie nodded.

  Susan said, “That was pretty brave—not telling him.”

  “Brave?” Amelie said. She almost laughed. “Jesus, Susan!—for a smart person, you’re not very bright sometimes.”

  * * *

  They took a long route back to make sure Roch hadn’t managed to follow. Coming up on Amelie’s rooming house, Susan slowed. There was no sign of the van… Roch wasn’t here.

  But he had been. He must not have tried to follow at all; he must have come straight back. Amelie’s things had been trashed. “Oh, no,” Susan said. She waited for some response from Amelie, but there was none. Amelie only looked morosely at the pile of wreckage that had been her stereo, the little TV, a suitcase full of clothes. “Stop,” she said, as the Honda rolled past. She opened the passenger door and leaned out to collect a couple of blouses, some tapes, a pair of Levis from the snowy gutter. She held these on her lap.

  “All that other stuff,” Susan said, “you know, we can replace all that.”

  Amelie shrugged and closed the door. She did not look back as Susan drove away.

  * * *

  Amelie was silent during most of the ride to the house Dr. Kyriakides had rented, seeming to watch the snow that had begun to accumulate across the brown farm fields and the cold marshes north of the city. Susan drove carefully, grateful for the silence and the chance to begin to assimilate everything that had happened. That terrible man … and, my God, she had almost killed him, slamming the car door into him … !

  “The thing is,” Amelie said quietly, “I just don’t know.”

  Susan looked across at her. “Know what?”

  Amelie studied her fingernails.

  “About Roch,” she said. “I don’t know whether we can do something like that to him. I mean, and get away with it.” She turned her large, shiny eyes on Susan. “I don’t know if he’ll let us.”

  14

  From the notebooks of Maxim Kyriakides:

  Finally we are all together in this house, presumably for the duration of the winter. (The snow continues to deepen; we are all confined by it—though of course it isn’t the snow that keeps us together.) In our isolation, certain things have become clear.

  I begin to realize that there is, underlying all else, the question of Benjamin. The question of his sudden new presence in John’s life. The question of where Benjamin comes from, and perhaps what he will become.

  * * *

  From the taped transcripts of their meetings: Maxim Kyriakides and John Shaw, January 12:

  Kyriakides: Hello, John. Please, sit down. [The sound of a chair being pulled up.] This is the room I’ve set aside for my work. I hope we’ll be meeting here often. [A long pause.] You’re staring at me. … Is something wrong?

  John: [His voice firm but somewhat subdued.] I’m wondering what you want from me.

  Kyriakides: Well, that’s a complicated question. I won’t attempt to lie to you. Let’s say—for the moment, I’m your doctor.

  John: You won’t lie, but you will condescend to me.

  Kyriakides: Is that what I’m doing?

  John: I know you, Max. It’s been years, obviously. But I haven’t forgotten.

  Kyriakides: You understand, this is difficult for me, too. I know you. I know what you’re capable of. I know what you could do as a child. … I can guess what you’re capable of now. So there’s an element of caution.

  John: Of fear.

  Kyriakides: If you like. Does that make you happy?

  John: Is this psychoanalysis?

  Kyriakides: I suppose, on one level, it is. I can be a better judge of what’s happening if we’re able to talk to one another.

  John: You can judge my deterioration, you mean.

  Kyriakides: If it happens that way. I hope to be able to prevent it. [A pause.] We’re being honest, here.

  John: All those years …

  Kyriakides: You resented me.

  John: No, Max. I hated you.

  * * *

  John: Tell me about the treatment.

  Kyriakides: Treatment can’t begin until we have more information. I have an arrangement with Dr. Collingwood—he’s a neurologist. He’ll be examining you, and he has connections at the University and at Toronto General, so we’ll have access to PET scanners and that sort of thing. We need a complete neurological workup before we can proceed.

  John: In other words, you don’t have any treatment in mind.

  Kyriakides: What I mean is that I won’t discuss treatment until we know more. I don’t want you second-guessing me.

  John: Even if my guesses are better than yours.

  Kyriakides: It isn’t a question of pride. I admit that I need a certain amount of elbow-room—emotional, intellectual.

  John: You did animal studies.

  Kyriakides: Yes …

  John: The animals experienced loss of cortical tissue.

  Kyriakides: They did.

  John: Did they die? [Pause.] Max? Did the animals die?

  Kyriakides: Some of them—yes.

  * * *

  Kyriakides: I think we have to begin by talking about Benjamin.

  John: I won’t submit to amateur psychoanalysis—I thought I’d made that clear. The problem is physiological.

  Kyriakides: The symptoms may not be. This is relevant, John. You do accept the implication that Benjamin—his manifestation over the last year or two—is a symptom?

  John: Of something. Are you asking me to diagnose myself?

  Kyriakides: I’m trying to justify my interest.

  John: You’re suggesting Benjamin began to manifest as a result of cortical disfunction. Maybe so, maybe not. Sometimes I think I just … lost interest. When I invented him, you know, it was a willful act—I wanted someone to run all the routine chores, to gratify all the expectations I couldn’t fulfill. He was a kind of autopilot. Do you understand? But I think that’s the danger. I created an autonomous cortical subroutine and allowed it access to my voluntary motor activity. That must have created profound neural channeling—it’s not the sort of thing you can simply erase. And when being John Shaw became too difficult, Benjamin was there. He was waiting.

  Kyriakides: Why was it difficult to be John Shaw?

  John: Maybe I was sick. Maybe I was just … tired.

  Kyriakides: But it was a conscious decision.

  John: To resurrect Benjamin? No—it was not.

  Kyriakides: Therefore we have to examine it.

  John: This is still parlor Freudianism, Max. Benjamin as the unconscious mind of John Shaw. The Three Faces of Eve. But it isn’t like that. You should know better. Freud was a bourgeois apologist, wasn’t he?

  Kyriakides: I’m not a Marxist anymore, John.

  John: How they fade—the passions of our youth.

  Kyriakides: You’re trying to nettle me. Is that why you keep calling me “Max”?

  John: That’s what they used to call you, isn’t it? Your colleagues in the Network?

  Kyriakides: You know about that?

  John: I overheard things—even as a child. I’m sorry if it bothers you, calling you Max. I would feel a little odd about using formal titles, I’m afraid.

  Kyriakides: Your conscious mind is exceptional, John. I haven’t made the mistake of assuming your unconscious mind is any less prodigious. Nor should you.

  John: Superman and superego.

  Kyriakides: Obviously I can’t force you to talk about Benjamin. But the implication is that you find the topic disturbing.

  John: I’m about to be evicted from my body, Max. Or lose my mind. Of course it’s disturbing.

  Kyriakides: Yes, but there may be another way to think about it. I wonder if Benjamin isn’t a kind of survival instinct? Unconscious—I’m forced to use the word. But profound. Maybe you’ve resurrected him for a reason. He’s your creation, after all. He may be the key to your survival.

  Jo
hn: A rapprochement. We learn to love each other. It’s a cliche.

  Kyriakides: Something more subtle than that. What if, neurologically speaking, Benjamin is a sort of life-raft? The scrap of wood that survives the disaster?

  John: Then I should cling to him?

  Kyriakides: You should become him. You should colonize him.

  John: You can’t put all your cargo on a raft, Max. It sinks.

  Kyriakides: No … but perhaps you can save what’s most valuable.

  * * *

  John: I’m tired—I’d like to go back to my room.

  Kyriakides: I won’t keep you. Only one more question. You’ve been remarkably successful at restraining Benjamin ever since Susan contacted you—

  John: That’s why I’m tired, Max.

  Kyriakides: Do you expect him to manifest his presence soon?

  John: It wouldn’t surprise me. I’m not sure how to keep him away. In Indonesia, they chase away evil spirits by banging pots and pans. Would that work, Max? Stimulants are also good. But I don’t suppose Dr. Collingwood would be willing to write a prescription. [A pause.] You want to meet him—is that it?

  Kyriakides: Is that difficult to understand?

  John: You think he can help you?

  Kyriakides: Susan says he’s been helpful.

  John: Cooperating in his own annihilation?

  Kyriakides: If that’s what it means. It may not. Do you despise him so much? You created him, after all. He’s a part of you.

  John: I don’t think even Shakespeare would enjoy having Hamlet compete for the control of his body—do you, Max?

  Kyriakides: Hamlet was imaginary—

  John: So was Benjamin.

  Kyriakides: But he isn’t any longer. Surely that’s the point? You’ve created a living human being. You have to live with the consequences.

  John: I yield to your experience in the matter.

  * * *

  From the notebooks of Maxim Kyriakides: